Kneading
by TeamCedric
Summary: Poor Dickon. This might end up going further if I can figure out what Mary's thinking these days. Kind of another version of "The Garden Party" but without the party :


Dickon came into the house as he always did: an abrupt swing and slam of the door. His mother didn't look at him, her eyes on her bread, the fingers of her youngest as he clumsily peeled potatoes, and the water boiling sheets over the stove. "All right, our Dickon?"

"All right, ma."

She could detect the vibrations of human emotion and experience no matter what distracted her. Not lifting her head, her eyes rose to examine him. "Hungry?"

"Starved."

"Bread's in 'breadbox. You'll have to wait for stew till tatties are done."

Dickon grunted and walked over to the bread box. Half-way there, though, he slowed, lowered his head a little, then sat down in the nearest chair.

Mrs. Sowerby pursed her lips. "How's our Martha?"

"I didn't see her. I was in' garden all mornin' and … stables all afternoon."

He usually found time to stop into the kitchens to say even a brief hello to his sister. Mrs. Sowerby heard the hesitations, but kept on kneading.

"I mean," said Dickon, his voice a little stronger, "Miss Mary had me follow her into town while she visited with Miss Partridge."

She kneaded and kneaded.

"Two hour I were out in this wind," he muttered to himself.. "An' Parker wi' no blanket…"

A tear was kneaded into the bread, which got kneaded the harder for it. "Archie!" she snapped. "The fire!"

The younger son, whose peeling had turned into whittling, leaving lumps of perfectly good potato lying in the dust, jumped and looked furtively at the fire under the tub of sheets. Dickon automatically rose to help him add coal and stir the water back to a boil.

Back at her table, Mrs. Sowerby gave the dough a respite, dumping it into a bowl to rise again. "Pass the cheesecloth," she said to Dickon, more abruptly than she'd meant.

Dickon brought it to her from the cupboard. Close to, she could see his eyes shifting from one object to another; his hands slid into his pockets and stayed there, pulling his shoulders down.

"They could at least 'a' fed thee."

"Hmmm," he agreed. "But I were fed up, ma," he said. "I just wanted to come home."

She turned from putting the bowl away, and he was finally looking at her. His eyes were wide open, begging her to tell him what she always told him: unvarnished truth and common sense, prose to bring him back down from the poetry he always fell victim to in the garden, and with _her_. But Mrs. Sowerby paused before she spoke, for there was a slight furrow in his brow, that reminded her of the man he had become, that dared her to challenge his love for this unattainable fairy.

They stayed like that for a few moments; a younger Dickon would have smiled at her, given her that sense that he knew how much she relied on him to be steady, to be the man of the house. This Dickon was still steady for her but had lost the smile. Mrs. Sowerby pursed her lips again and looked away, pretending to swat at a hair on her face while she dashed away another tear. "Well, if you're expecting feeding, you'd better start on them cabbages," she said in a slightly harassed tone.

* * *

Later, in his bed by the door, Dickon listened to the sounds of his brothers and sisters moving in their sleep, and waited for his mother to fall asleep. He hated the way she had looked at him today, like he was a stranger. Couldn't she see this hell that he was calling to her from? Couldn't she have at least seemed happy to see him when he came home? There weren't nearly as many children in the house to feed now; he and Martha and the ones who were working brought in a damn sight more money than they had five years ago. By the standards of her street, the Sowerbys weren't doing too badly, thank you very much. The pleasure he'd felt in buying her her first new hat in ten years, then her first new cloak, then a decent Sunday dress and good shoes; couldn't she see that the cold in her towards him froze that pride, was twisting it into bitterness and anger?

I'm no comfort to her now, he thought, relishing the stab it gave him. No comfort to myself, neither. He turned over, expertly avoiding the lumps in the mattress as he settled himself. Listening. She breathed steadily, but was not asleep. He was easily cross with her again. Go to sleep, 'ooman, he thought, looking out of the window at the half-moon. Not enough light and too many clouds to work by, but he could still lose himself on the moor for a few hours. The pang of guilt at leaving the family unprotected was easy to quench. I'm in hell! he cried out to her, to himself. Everywhere I love, all I get is hell!


End file.
